


Rose Waltz

by Jay Tryfanstone (tryfanstone)



Series: Orville Peck: the outtakes [1]
Category: Country Music RPF, Orville Peck - Fandom
Genre: 1850s, Alternate Universe, Genderfluid Character, London, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23735947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryfanstone/pseuds/Jay%20Tryfanstone
Summary: Behind the Mask: London, 1855, and Orville Peck has an invitation to the Masked Ball.
Series: Orville Peck: the outtakes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709713
Kudos: 4





	Rose Waltz

"Who is that masked guest?" whispered Lady Louise Lansdown, arch and artful behind the pink-and-yellow feathers of her Maltese fan.

"Oh, I wish I knew," sighed Miss ffoulks-Williams, fluttering her own confection of humming-bird wings and gilded chicken-skin. "I have not seen such shoulders since we were at Malvern High!"

Lady Louise shot a sideways scowl at the bosom companion of her schooldays. "Monsieur Lapin was quite beneath you, Foofy."

"And yet, what a leg!" said Miss ffoulks-Williams. "The elegance of his pose on the dance-floor! His...thighs!"

"To fall for your dancing-master is beyond cliché," snapped Lady Louise.

"Of course, he had a soft spot for me," said Miss ffoulks-Williams, hiding her smirk behind a flourished fan and downcast eyelashes. 

"Really," said Lady Louise. "La! The Duke has offered his arm. Do you suppose he recognises our masked stranger?"

"I find a fringe so very romantic," sighed Miss ffoulks-Williams. "And such a fringe! I declare, scarlet must be the most daring of colours. Lou, darling, we simply _must_ achieve an introduction."

Without school-friends, fringe or introductions, half-hidden behind the voluminous skirts of Lady Louise's silk ballgown, Miss Morrison clutched her reticle and did her very best to disguise herself as a faded shadow against the peppermint-striped wall-paper. She was searingly conscious of her limp frock, cut from one of her mother's old dancing slips, her worn slippers and threadbare gloves, and her pale, bare shoulders under the lace of her shawl. Not an hour before, when she presented her invitation, she had thought herself daringly exposed and as close to the height of fashion as she could contrive, yet experience proved her attired so modestly that she might as well have been a dowager. Her cheeks burned under the cotton of her mask, devised so lovingly by Nurse to resemble, of all things, a field-mouse: her mother's slip was the palest of pinks, with grey satin ribbons, perfect for the sweet ingénue the late Lady Maria had been twenty years before. 

Miss Morrison was no such ingénue. Young as she was, on her depended the welfare of her sister Isabella and her brother Felix, of Nurse, who had been her mother's lady's maid and had followed her into an ill-advised marriage; and of their beloved John Coachman, whose pension she was bound to pay by honour and affection. Her hands, under the concealing kid-skin of her gloves, were stained with faint traces of ink and scarred by the knife she used to sharpen the nibs of her pens. Tomorrow she had a serial instalment to write, and a piece on the wild beauties of the District of Derbyshire, known to her only through the pages of the Smithson Lending Library but still paying 1/- per thousand words, and thus ensuring a supper of pie and peas for the whole household. To have travelled from her writing desk to the stifling heat of a society ballroom with its diamond-coiffeured debutantes, and its elegant gentlemen with their pristine gloves and decorated breasts, was a leap too far. She should not have picked up that tempting, misplaced invitation. It was not the opportunity she and Nurse had rejoiced over, planning, it was a humiliating trap, and were she not hemmed in by silks she should have fled the lure of it. There was no place for such as her in high society. 

Miss Morrison had dried her tears over her mother's grave and set her chin at the world. She raised it now, and squared her shoulders. Mouse she might be, but in front of her was such a parade as would serve her for twenty periodicals; political hostesses and naive heiresses, the fabulously rich and the fortunately witty. She set herself to learn the patterns of high society, the subtle graduations of an introduction, the negotiations of a dance-card, the cut, the turned shoulder, the coy smile, the stiff bow...an entire language played out in front of her, as on a stage, and every person on it merely players, to be delineated later in the script of her own stories.

"...And look! Lady Wyndham is smiling - she nods permission - oh! It is beyond aggravating - just because one has the advantage of novelty-"

"And to waltz with the Duke," muttered Miss ffoulks-Williams. 

"Presumption," sniffed Lady Louise. 

Perforce, Miss Morrison's gaze was drawn to the couple so observed. Masked or not, the Duke was strikingly familiar, although she was struck again at how much he resembled his cartoon image in the penny dreadfuls, a sketch of broomstick limbs and cocks-comb hair; she had always thought him to have a good-humoured face, with a ready smile and kind eyes. Although still in his twenties, he had demonstrated himself to have a ready interest in Improving Agriculture and, rather than racehorses, Prize Sheep, which had served to frustrate both the penny press and the ambitious mamas of the _ton_ , for there was little excitement or attraction in such dull pursuits. He waltzed, though, with accomplished ease, and by the pleasant animation of his countenance was at the very same time conversing with more than polite engagement. 

His companion was a far less conventional figure. Almost as tall as the Duke, she was broad-shouldered and well built, with a muscular definition to her upper arms and back that was distinctly unfashionable, although Miss Morrison privately found it beautiful. Despite the strength of her upper body, her waist was tiny, no more than the span of a man's hands, and the composed elegance of her posture was grace itself. Her hair was neatly arranged and decorated with a miniature, jewelled hat of the colonial type, her dress cream silk, embroidered with scarlet and gold butterflies, and instead of the usual Venetian half-mask she wore a fringed confection which disguised her from hairline to neckline. The slightest motion set each satin strand swaying, every movement both a promise of reveal and a titillating disguise, while her eyes glinted though the narrow slits of the mask. 

Miss Morrison had seldom seen someone both so clearly playing a part, and determinedly themselves. Fascination and envy drew all her attention; it seemed to her that at any moment the sway of the waltz might reveal the masked stranger's features, while at the same time she found she was holding her breath and hoping for this unknown all the acknowledged triumph of a society beauty - the very same debut, and the same success, for which she herself had so naively hoped. 

"It is quite clear," sniffed Lady Louise, "That a masked ball lacks the kind of exclusivity for which one should wish."

The waltz had ended. A small crowd of gentleman surrounded the Duke and his companion, jockeying for an introduction, leaving the far corners of the room bare of entertainment.

Miss ffoulks-Williams allowed the briefest of frowns. "I thought - well, Louise, you said a masque would be the greatest lark?"

It was the Earl of Petersham who led the masked stranger onto the dance floor, her eyes demurely lowered, but her head high. Abandoned to less attractive company, the Duke allowed himself a rueful smile, brushing aside the eager queries of other men with a shrug. For a moment, Miss Morrison allowed herself to admire the quiet elegance of his coat, so restful among the gaudy decorations of other men, and the folds of his neckcloth, all the more striking for their plain simplicity.

"It is a poor ball indeed when one is abandoned on the sidelines like the veriest - country bumpkin!" said Lady Louise. 

Her voice was pointed. Miss Morrison, stung despite her stiffened resolve, could not but glance sideways, to discover herself the object of Lady Louise's scorn. 

"Come, Fouffy," said Lady Louise. "Let us find a more _favourable_ situation."

"Perhaps it is the company which determines popularity," Miss Morrison commented, recalling with a wistful pang how the masked stranger had made the Duke laugh. "And not the situation."

"Oh!" gasped Lady Louise, bridling. "Well, really! Foofs, with me!"

As she flounced to her feet, the snap of her fan as irritated as the set of her mouth, Miss Morrison bethought herself of half a dozen consequences she should have foreseen before opening her mouth. One of them was already occurring, as ball-goers turned to observe the sudden commotion. The school friends, with their rustling skirts, their rattling powder-boxes and scent-bottles, their brandished fans and snatched-up reticles, were not shy about their departure. Miss Morrison, cruelly exposed, wilted. She could no longer think of herself as the intrepid reporter, but was instead once again miserably aware of her poor costume and friendless state. She could not bear to meet the curious glances of disinterested onlookers, but pride kept her back straight and her chin up. Thus it was that she saw the Duke turn towards her corner - she could not bear it - suppose he recognised in her the childhood companion she had once been, sunk to such depths - of all things, her hands were shaking - 

"So awkward," said a warm, amused voice, a deep voice, with an unfamiliar accent. "But do you know where the dressing rooms are? Either I have mislaid them, or there has no direction given."

Miss Morrison looked up into kind eyes, smiling behind the disguise of a scarlet fringed mask. The masked stranger stood between her and the disinterested curiousity of the ballroom guests, her gloved hand outstretched. 

"And I so clumsy," she said. Indeed, a tread of ripped lace curled from the ruffles of her sleeve. "I know we have yet to be introduced, but such conventions..." her hand waved them away. "Might I ask your help, Miss Morrison? I am persuaded you are a dab hand with a pin cushion."

"But you know my name," said Miss Morrison, faintly. She was already reaching out to this unexpected kindness. Her cold hand curled around the warm strength of the masked stranger's, and was held.

"I do," said the stranger. "And I am Orville Peck. Call me Orville. Now we have been introduced, and all the conventions acknowledged, so I may carry you away with me. We shall be friends, you and I."

"Orville, you shall not steal all my best companions," said Philip. The Duke. Philip, whom Miss Melville had known so long ago, when they had both been children, when she had carried a different name. "Rob - Miss Morrison. It has been a lifetime. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to glimpse a familiar face, and I hope you will forgive my presumption on old acquaintance." 

His smile was so familiar and dear. Miss Morrison found herself clinging to Orville Peck's strong hand, unable to look away. 

"But - all is well with you?" Philip asked. His eyes were anxious; there was no rejection in his face, no fearful curiousity, he was all concern and affection. "And your mother? Felix and Isabella?"

There was a lump in her throat. Miss Morrison swallowed, swallowed again, blinked - such a fool she must look, and yet Philip waited on her, as concerned as any family friend. "My brother and sister are well, I thank you," she said. "My mother-"

"Oh, my dear!" said Philip. Her hand was in his, both her hands were in his, she was barely conscious of Orville Peck moving to hide their clasped fingers. "I am so sorry. She was a woman of such kindness. I shall never forget how she welcomed me to your home and to your family."

"She was much loved," said Miss Morrison, and gave herself a moment to regain her self possession. The years of armouring herself served her well: she drew on her own true self, the shield of her own crafted image, and knew when she raised her eyes she was herself again. "But you - I was sorry to hear about your father."

"Thank you for your letter," said Philip. His voice had stiffened, for he and the old Duke had never found common ground. "But you left no forwarding address, and my solicitors could not trace your whereabouts. You cannot imagine my pleasure when I recognised you tonight."

"Disguised," said Miss Morrison. She would have touched her field-mouse mask, but her hands were still held close. 

"Not to close acquaintance," said Philip. His face had softened, and his voice was gentle. "I would know you in any guise."

Their eyes caught, and held. She had not forgotten their bright blue, but in the lost years she had mislaid Philip's kindness, and the gentle force of his intellect. And the way he looked at her, as if she were precious.

"Well, this is all very affecting," said Orville Peck, laughter shadowing the words and blunting their sting. "But, my dears, lest you risk censure, I would suggest parting now, and reconvening at a later date."

"Orville!" said Philip. "How can I - I lost her once-"

"And that is why I shall escort Miss Morrison home," said Orville Peck, firmly. "And on the morrow, my carriage shall call. It will be a good day, I think, for an excursion to Regent's Park. Should you be there, Philip, at mid-afternoon, we would welcome your company."

"Oh, indeed we would," said Miss Morrison, dazzled. 

"I will be there," Philip said. "I swear."

"And now you will be away," Orville Peck declared. "Miss Morrison - really, are we not better acquainted? What should I call you?"

"Roberta?" said Miss Morrison, dragging her eyes away from Philip's retreating figure. He had glanced back once, a swift, seeking look. "Roberta." 

"That will do very well," said Orville Peck. "Come now. Before we go, there is a knack to your shawl - look, twist the edges just so, and you achieve the shadow of a cleavage neither of us will naturally own. But, oh, Roberta, would I had your figure - it is no wonder the Duke is enchanted."

Wonder grew, a rose-bush, around her heart. "Mr... Miss... Orville," said Roberta Morrison, who had been born Robert, and who had never dreamed that her childhood sweetheart might learn to love her true self. 

"Chin up," said Orville Peck. "And walk like a duchess, my dear."

Orville was, surely, smiling under the mask. She was, too.


End file.
